It's abrupt, and maybe even rude, but I roll away from Sophie then and spend the next several hours wide awake, wishing it could be that easy.
It's a wish I'm already sure I'll make too often, because by definition, one night should have ended in the morning.
It didn't.
Jamie and I didn't.
And I don't know what to do whenoverfeels like the kind of thing reserved for hockey careers and summer breaks.
When the sun makes itself known, I start by making a greasy breakfast, the best way to apologize to our stomachs for an impromptu tequila night. I follow that up with a morning routine requiring very little thought or small talk with a best friend who’s heard plenty, even if she had more questions after I stopped answering. Outside my apartment, I get a hug meant to hold me together, then Sophie and I go our separate ways, and I drive to school and teach a full day of classes.
When Harper Sinclair smiles up at me from her desk, I smile right back.
When I hear her dad's name too many times in the teachers' lounge, I take my lunch outside.
Another text doesn't come until I'm home again.
Can we talk?
I despise the way my body reacts to the sight of Jamie's name, a tangle of nausea and relief, and I can't decide whether I'd feel better if I change it in my phone or whether I need to delete him entirely. Neither will help now, and I exhale slowly when I sit on the edge of my bed and tap on the screen instead.
"Mateo."
"I don't know if you can keep calling me that," I sigh.
"But it's your—it's how you introduced yourself to me."
He could be referring to the alley or my classroom, but it doesn't matter. "It's too soft. Gentle. You say my name like you're taking care of it for me."
"Or like I'm afraid to let it go."
"We have to, though. We have to let all of it go."
He's quiet for several seconds, and I almost pull the phone away to see whether we're still connected. I don't, only because there's really no need. I know he's there, and I hate that comfortable certainty in the wake of everything else.
"Meet me at the bench," Jamie finally says, as tender with his command as he'd been just a minute ago. "Tomorrow night. Late, like before."
Like beforeis impossible, but I don't say so. "Is that a good idea?"
"Probably not, but I'm used to getting my way."
"Right up until the moment you don't."
Jamie chokes on a weak laugh. "Right up 'til then, yeah."
"Okay."
"Okay? You'll be there?"
"I'll be there."
The echo of hope in his voice—and probably the resignation in mine—is what keeps me moving forward the next 24 hours, and I still hear both as I approach the beach. After I'd hung up with Jamie yesterday evening, I'd considered canceling on him a dozen times, only to scroll through our texts and steel myself for any bad idea that could get me close to him again. The last time I read our messages was about three minutes ago, when I left my car on the street and began this short walk, but my phone is in my pocket now.
I'm close enough to the rocky shoreline to look for Jamie.
Just like that first night, it's dark and quiet this far away from the fire pits and smoother stretches of sand, but a house on the hillside has beautiful backyard lights, and they help me now. I'm cautious with each step while I search for the path that will bring me to a hidden bench, and pause to glance around again in case Jamie's near enough to lead me there. He's not, and I'm not sure whether I'm early or late, but I keep going.
I find the path.